


the other tully girl

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Series: dropofrum sampler [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, FEMINISM. IDK., Sisters, a take back her goddamn life song, i wrote a fucking fight song for lysa tully arryn, it is a fucking OUTRAGE that she doesnt have one already, welcome to my longest rant ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 06:10:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12337038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: In another world, in another time, Aemon Targaryen would look at Jon Snow, and tell him to kill the boy.Kill the boy, and let the man take his place.But Lysa was all alone when she looked into her mirror, with red-rimmed eyes and splotchy, grey skin, and told herself she wasn't allowed to be a little girl anymore.(There is a story, about two girls, and who they could have been. About women who are heroes, but never remembered, and about sisterhood, and love, and how it keeps a kingdom together.It deserves to be told.)





	the other tully girl

#####  _“Lysa was never brave. When we were girls together, she would run and hide whenever she’d done something wrong. Perhaps she thought our lord father would forget to be wroth with her if he could not find her. It is no different now. She ran from King’s Landing for fear, to the safest place she knows, and she sits on her mountain hoping_ everyone will forget her.”  
  
\- Catelyn III, A Storm of Swords

* * *

When Petyr came to Riverrun, Lysa was six, he was eight, and Cat, at the grand age of nine was infinitely wiser and prettier than Lysa could ever hope to be. (Edmure was also... around, but he was only a fat little baby, and for most part, Lysa found him very loud and very boring, and sought to avoid as much as she could. With Mother so ill, it largely fell to Cat to make sure the baby was fed and clean and happy. Lysa, for one, was perfectly content with this state of affairs.)

Lysa remembers the day Petyr came very clearly, because she had been playing by the streams that snaked through the woods of the Trident, until she heard the guards call out to their visitor, the sound of a lone horse cantering down the road, and she had scurried up the bank to investigate. 

But Lysa had been curious, and careless, and she'd tripped over a root, falling with a startled little cry, before she saw blood well from her ankle, which she took for the perfect time to burst into helpless, shocked tears. she didn't hear the rustle of someone approaching, and this is how she first saw Petyr, gilded in sunlight, a small curl of a smile playing about his face, a skinny arm extended to help her up. she placed her hand in his, and smiled back shyly, as he pulled her gently up to her feet, and there was a moment where his rough-spun clothes, and shaggy hair, were replaced by shining armor and a beautifully wrought helm. 

Lysa thought, then, that if she could have her knight, she'd like for it to be this boy, and this boy alone. 

* * *

 

It took her eight moons, of watching him from shadows, quietly trailing him through riverrun's hallways, to find out that the way she felt about Petyr, was the way Petyr felt about Cat. 

Lysa hadn't known it was possible to hate your own sister quite so much, not until that day. 

* * *

 

 

 

Lysa was seven when Mama died. 

They all escaped to the riverbanks that day, she and Cat and Petyr. 

She knew, intellectually, that she was supposed to cry - Cat was crying, sobbing her eyes out, as Petyr tucked her a little closer, running a hand down her spine, his eyes tightly closed, his nose buried in the curve of shoulder, as if he wanted to imprint this moment onto his soul. 

Lysa knew she was supposed to cry - Cat said that 'dying' meant 'never coming back,' that there would be no tomorrows with mama, no kisses on her brow before she went to sleep, no lemon-scented embraces when Lysa behaved especially well. 

Lysa knew she was — but it didn't feel real, not yet, and so she stared at the rushing waters of the Trident, letting the roar of the water blanket out her thoughts, and she did not cry. 

Not yet. 

* * *

 

Cat snuck into Lysa's bedchamber three nights later. Her eyes were still puffy, and she had great, purple bruises underneath, and all her lovely red hair was a snarled, unbrushed mess atop her head. 

Lysa thought it was monstrously unfair that Cat could be such a mess and still be so very pretty. 

But when Cat made to sneak into the covers next to Lysa, she shifted and made room for her by instinct, because for all that Cat was... well, Cat. She was still her favourite sister, her best sister, her only sister. Lysa didn't know how not to love her. 

"Are you sad?" Lysa asked finally, when it seemed Cat had forgotten all of her words. 

"Yes," she admitted, her voice hoarse and exhausted. "Are you?"

"I'm... well. I suppose. I don't know."

"Would you tell me? If you were sad?"

Lysa frowned at that — it was a new concept to her. Why _wouldn't_ she tell Cat, if she were unhappy?

"Yes," she finally said, nodding, because it seems to answer is importnat to her sister. "I would."

Cat's smile is wan, but true, and when she snuggles up a bit tighter to kiss Lysa on her brow, the lemony scent of her hair drifting around them like a hug, it's alright if mama isn't around anymore.

Cat's here.   
It's going to be okay. 

* * *

 

 

 

It was not okay. 

Lysa loved Cat and Edmure and Papa and Uncle Brynden, and despite the way he treated her, like a sweet, forgettable baby, she loved Petyr too, loved him the way she loved all things, with a burning, rushing warmth that sank to her toes and tingled in her fingertips, the kind that pulled bright smiles, and lightning quick kisses, and long, sweet hugs. 

But Cat was betrothed to Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell, and it was only Petyr's rage that held Lysa's attention, the way he colored, splotchy and red, the way his eyes turned to narrow slits, his skinny hands balling up into fists. 

When she found him again, splayed in the roots of an ancient oak by their spot at the riverbank, his knuckles were bloody and cracked, his gray-green eyes dead as a corpse, the bark of the tree smeared with his blood, and all Lysa could think of was how... how lovely it would be, to be the focus of all that vengeful, single-minded devotion. 

* * *

 

"Lysa?" Cat asked carefully, from the doorway of Lysa's bedchamber, but Lysa didn't reply, burrowing deeper into the covers instead. 

Cat gasped when she realized Lysa was crying, her skinny body wracked with silent sobs, scrambling to Lysa's side, settling onto the mattress with graceless haste, and tugging the covers away to reveal Lysa's red, splotchy, tear-streaked face. 

"My gods," Cat murmured, wiping away Lysa's tears with shaky hands. "What's wrong, my love? Did someone- did anyone hurt you?" 

But Lysa cried out, and shoved Cat's hands away, shoved _her away,_ and Cat fell back with a thump, tugging the sheets away a little more to reveal Lysa's blood-spotted sheets. 

"Lysa..." Cat said carefully. "You're bleeding, little one. Let's get you changed, shall we? I'll call for rags and a bath-"

"I don't _want_ a bath!"

"Alright..." she placated. "Alright, just a change of clothes, and rags for your smalls, then, my dear, we don't want the sheets soaked-"

"Seven hells, Cat! It's not my moon blood!"

"Language!" Cat snapped back, on instinct, before frowning, just as Lysa blanched. "What do you _mean_ , it's not moon- oh. Oh no. Oh, Lysa..."

"I don't want to talk about it," Lysa whispered in a very small voice, trying, futilely, to tug the sheets back over her head, and burrow her face into the pillow where Petyr's scent was strongest. 

"Oh, my Lysa," Catelyn whispered, her blue eyes brimming with tears. "Did someone force you? Did they-" her hand rose to stroke Lysa's sweaty hair away from her brow, and once more Lysa was struck by it, that soft, sweet scent of lemons. "Did they hurt you, little one?"

Lysa closed her eyes tightly, and shook her head, even though that was a lie. Petyr had hurt her, when he shoved his prick inside of her secret place, he had hurt her when he pounded into her twice, thrice, four times, before shuddered and spent himself, hurt her when he collapsed into her slim body, hurt her when he whispered 'Cat,' into her skin, hurt her, hurt her, as the love overflowing from her chest, all through her veins, golden-bright had withered away, turning into a black, awful thing, digging thorns into her heart. 

 _Hurt_ her.   
He _hurt_ her. 

* * *

 

 

 

Lysa miscarried the babe, for was only ten, and too little to be a mother. When her thighs grew slick with waterish blood, it was Catelyn who pulled her to her breast, and let Lysa cry herself to sleep. She asked for a father's name, but Lysa never said a word.

There once was a boy.  
A boy she could have loved.

* * *

 

 

 

And then Rhaegar stole that pretty Stark girl, the one with the long face, and high cheekbones, and angry eyes, and Brandon Stark, beautiful, strong, funny Brandon died, and Lord Stark died, and Cat cried and cried and cried-

But Ned Stark came instead, with his shy eyes, and deep voice, and hands that seemed a little too big for the rest of him, and Cat watched him with soft eyes, dancing closer to him with each passing day. 

When she smiled at him, Ned Stark blushed, and Cat's eyes turned impossibly bluer. 

Petyr turned quieter and angrier, colder than the stones at the bottom of the Yellow Fork, and Lysa watched him, from the shadows where she had made her home, the place between her legs twinging with a remembered pain, and thought _good_. 

 _If I don't get my knight, you don't get her either._  
You don't deserve her.   
_You deserve nothing._

She smiled at him anyway, peering from over Cat's shoulder, meeting his cold eyes with pretend warmth.   
Someday, she would hurt him, and he would know the mistake he had made. 

The girl he had lost.   
The love he could have had. 

Someday, he'd know. 

* * *

 

 

 

Papa sold her off to Jon Arryn. 

Lysa was six-and-ten. Her new husband was eight-and-thirty. 

He hurt her too, but he tried not to. He kissed her softly, and when he touched her breasts she felt a little frisson of warmth curl in her belly, and blushed ridiculously when he kissed her nipples like a suckling babe. He whispered, _'Lysa, my sweet little Lysa,'_   when he spent himself, and held her close to his chest, letting her tuck her head under his chin, and stroked her sweaty back over her shift until she fell fast asleep.

So she didn't hate papa much, at all. 

And when Cat whispered to her that her moon blood hadn't come since the new lord stark left, Lysa imagined being called Auntie by little black-haired boys and blue-eyes girls and impulsively dropped to her knees and kissed Cat's belly. 

A baby. 

A wee, squirmy little babe. 

Catelyn giggled, tugging Lysa up to her feet before they hugged, blissful with a shy, fluttery happiness, and Lysa thought this war wasn't the worst thing to have happened to either of them. 

* * *

 

Cat had a baby she named Robb, for the new king, for her husband's brother-in-arms. he had tully-blue eyes, and tully-red hair, the prettiest, happiest babe Lysa had ever seen, and for the long months while they waited for their husbands to return, Robb wasn't put down once, not once, for when Cat tired, Lysa was always waiting, arms outstretched, a soppy, enormous smile on her face. 

* * *

 

Jon took Lysa to the capital. 

Eddard took Cat to Winterfell. 

When they left home, they both pretended not to cry for the other's sake. _I have to be strong for her,_ they each thought, because that's family — being strong for someone you love, even when you are hurting inside. _I must be strong for my sister._

When Lysa finally broke into stilted, hitching sobs, trundling south on the Kingsroad in their tiny, snug wheelhouse, Jon Arryn merely draped his cloak around her thin, shivering shoulders, pulling her into his chest, and did not say a word. He smelt like juniper, and cinnamon, and a bit like horses. 

It was a far cry from lemons, but it was... nice. 

(It wasn't mint, and grey-green eyes, and her sister's name on his lips. It was _wonderful_.)

* * *

 

 

 

There was something about the Lannisters.

Something _wrong._

* * *

 

 

 

Petyr came to the capital. 

He came to the capital, and bowed over her hand, dropping a too-familiar kiss to her knuckles, and Lysa dredged out that girl she had been, shy and hesitant and unkind; she blushed, fluttering her lashes before tugging her hand free and holding it to her heart, and never meeting his eye. 

She caught his delighted smirk from the corner of her eye, and smirked back with her eyes. But Petyr didn't notice - Petyr never did notice, and when Lysa melted back into the shadowy corners of the Red Keep and watched Petyr wrest control of the capital, and then the Crownlands, finding a place first on the Small Council, and then by her sweet, honorable husband's side, she watched with increasing, desperate fear, for there was nothing she could do. 

* * *

 

Petyr had begun looking at her, a speculative, glittering gleam to his gaze, and it curled something through her, a forgotten heat, a slow, burning warmth, the grey of his eyes mirrored by the silver mockingbird at his throat, the fine, expensive cuts of his robes, the clever, self-possessed richness of his laughter, as rare as Dornish wine. 

Petyr had begun looking at her, and, she was painfully alone in this bloody castle, with naught but her sweet young son by her side, who had recently discovered an obsession with climbing _literal walls,_ to his mother's everlasting horror, and a secondary obsession with kittens, of which she approved, with Jon so immersed in his duties while the affairs of state devolved to tatters all around them, driven by the Queen's petulant demands and the King's wrathful heedlessness. 

Petyr began looking at her, a new want in his eyes, and helplessly, Lysa began looking back. 

* * *

 

Cat wrote often, ravens winging the length of Westeros to deliver her missives, about her brood, with exasperated cheer, and Lysa was dragged back to the days when Cat had wiped edmure's nose and kissed Lysa's brow, when she had rocked Robb to sleep, and crawled under Lysa's sheets, whispering naughty jokes until her little sister had giggled herself breathless

Cat had been a mother her whole life, Lysa thought. She hoped Ned Stark gave her time to just be a girl, every now and then. And from the way she wrote of her husband, with fondness, an undercurrent of something true, something that tugged at Lysa's heart, she thought maybe he had. 

Lysa was sure her father hadn't been bothered with these things, because Hoster Tully had had a whole kingdom of little girls to care for, to protect and cherish and love. But quite by accident, he had married both of his girls to the most honorable men in Westeros. 

Strange, that, the quirks of fate. 

* * *

 

 

 

She took Petyr to her bed a second time, and he wasn't drunk this time, but when he kissed her, there was no warmth, when he touched her, there was no heat, and when he whispered plans to take her husband away, to make her his own, to crown her Lady Baelish and keep her by his side, Lysa smiled and kissed him harder. 

He slipped a little red vial under her pillow, the next morning, before he left, and slipped a little warm kiss to her mouth, and after he was gone, Lysa called for moon tea and retched into her chamber pot until her belly was voided entirely.

* * *

 

 _Why?_ she asked herself, staring sightlessly at the canopy of her bed.   
_Why kill Jon?_

Jon, who had done nothing, who had enabled Petyr's ascent to power?  
Jon, who was his ally on the council, and the key to greater strength?

She had no answers.

She asked herself another question.

What happened if Jon died?  
Robert would need a new hand. 

Who would Robert choose?

Not Tywin Lannister, not with how much the King despised the Queen.   
Not Arianne Martell - the Dornish had never recovered from Elia's death.   
Not either of his brothers; there was bad blood enough between the Baratheon men.  
Not a Tyrell - Lord Mace was already lord of ships, and with the connection solidified via Olenna Redwyne, in control of Westeros' most powerful fleet of warships.   
Not Edmure, not her brash baby brother - too young, too untested. 

_Ned._

He would choose Ned.   
His dearest, oldest friend. His brother in all but name. 

And with Ned... the Red Keep would open its doors to Catelyn Tully. 

 _Oh, Petyr,_ Lysa thought, the heart of the girl she once had been, starved for a love so unshakably deep, splintering to embers and dust in the shelter of her ribs. 

_You still love her? After all this time?_

* * *

 

 

 

_Always._

* * *

 

 

 

The next time, she went to Petyr's chambers instead, and stripped down to her shift, feeling his gaze rake over her body, fiery red hair draped over her shoulder, a pretty pink nipple winking through the dark strands of hair. 

She poured wine for herself and drank it dry. and she brought him wine too, insinuating herself on his lap, and stealing a sweet, heady kiss before pressing the wine cup in his hands and lifting herself away, shimmying out of the thin scrap of linen and reclining back on the pillows, letting her hands drift to her cunt, to touch herself until her wetness had turned her thighs damp, trembling, a dark flush to her cheeks. 

The poison took him in long, horrific moments, his body violently spasming, the empty wine cup falling out of his hands and rolling forlornly down the floor. When he was dead, Lysa kissed his brow, tasting mint on her tongue, and she closed his beautiful eyes. 

There was a girl once, who loved him.  
There was a girl once, whom he hurt.

* * *

 

 

 

Four years later, there are Lannister heads mounted on pikes, the bastards shipped off the Essos, and the Martells return to court. 

Gendry Baratheon is legitimized, along with Mya and Edric and a score of blue-eyed, dark-haired boys and girls, with their nervous gazes, and hunched shoulders, and Lysa's heart aches for them, for all of them, for these hardened, terrified children. Catelyn has her wolfpack, but Lysa will keep this, she thinks. 

Her little flock of castaways.

* * *

 

There is a different boy she raises then, the heir to the Vale of Arryn - Sweetrobin learns swordsmanship from Barristan Selmy, and honor from his papa, and cleverness from Tyrion Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. He is quick on his feet, because Obarra Sand is deadly when provoked, and he is sharp with his tongue, for Lady Margaery demands a clever wit in her court, and he is kind with his hands, because he wants to be like his mother.

There are reports of dragons from across the Narrow Sea, whispers of a girl named Daenerys Targaryen who calls herself a queen. There are reports of a war fought with wildlings beyond the wall. Wildlings and wights, monsters from stories and nightmares, walking the lands again. And a name, a bastard name, mentioned with no little awe... Lord Snow. Lord Commander, Jon Snow. 

But Lysa continues to write her letters to Cat, complaining about the heat and how ridiculous the king looks when he makes moon eyes at Arianne Martell. She takes tea with Olenna Redwyne, and worries when Sweetrobin flirts with the vicious Sand Snakes; she is a mother, a sister, a wife. She is more than the sum of her parts, because girls can be more than the men they love. 

Lysa makes a choice, and ends a war before it begins. There is a storm on the horizon, yes, and one of these days, she's going to sit Ellaria Sand down and explain to her that little boys are _fragile,_ and would it _kill her_ to be nicer to her ten year old boy?

There is a storm of the horizon, but Lysa kisses Robin Arryn good night, and kisses her husband a little more intently, curling into his side, hand drifting down his soft belly, nosing at the transluscent skin just behind his ear, as he chuckles, the sound rumbling around her like a caress.

* * *

 

 

 

There is a storm on a horizon.

_She calls herself Daenerys Stormborn, First of her Name, Queen of the Rhoynar, the Andals and the First Men-_

A storm, a war, a new age.

 

 

But for now, for a little longer, all is well. 

**Author's Note:**

> going on hiatus till december. hope you like this one, my dudes. kudo, if you do, please! <3


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